


To Break Down Because of a Running Mental Commentary

by orphan_account



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a glitch in his programming learned out of years and years of existing as who he is.</p>
<p>(Note: This is a repost of my work from my old account)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Break Down Because of a Running Mental Commentary

**Author's Note:**

> This is for someone. It’s a thank-you of sorts. I put in sort of obvious hints that only they would get, so. uh. yeah. ♥ (also a lot of what The Spine hears is a lot of what I hear but modified to fit what a robot would think of himself when in a flashback-y PTSD-ish rut like this, so. Uh.)
> 
> (Originally posted to Tumblr)

The Spine has had a rough few days. Memory-bank wise, at least. He has been plagued by the voices of those he fought alongside in every war, and by the trumpeting of elephants. He has heard the voices of the mechanics that upgraded him in the ‘50s remarking on how far behind he was—is—used to be, and how glad they were that Walter Robotics accepted the payment for his upgrading. He has heard a voice in his head—that doesn’t belong to any of them, but is the voice of a young woman—telling him that he isn’t human enough, isn’t good enough, isn’t  _enough_. He is broken and foolish for wanting.

He has wanted to do anything he can to  _make it_   _stop_ , just short of tearing out the wiring to his own brain and burying it under the floorboards. He has tried distracting himself with the work to be done in the Hall of Wires. He has practiced their sets. He has made sure that there is never a moment of silence in his head for the voice to take over. Nothing has worked.

The Spine has been trying his most valiantly to keep The Voice off of the Wi-Fi; to keep it from his brothers and the equipment. He can’t deal with that again. Not after it happened (he’s heard) at their last concert.

He is the big brother. He is the protector, the solid support beam that makes up their ragtag family of robots, the shoulder to lean on. The strongest pillar in the building. He is the one that everyone else turns to when they need comfort, when they need support, when they need to borrow his strength for even a moment.

He cannot allow himself this weakness, he cannot allow others to see it or rescue him from it. It wouldn’t be fair to his job, his brothers, the humans. It would be selfish. Greedy.  _Disgusting_. At least, that’s what the voice says.

The Spine knows the voice isn’t true; it’s a glitch in his programming learned out of years and years of existing as who he is. He knows he is good enough, he knows he isn’t broken.

He can’t stop listening to The Voice telling him otherwise.

_How pathetic. You aren’t human. You shouldn’t want to be. It’s strange. It’s a sign of a broken-broken-broken-broken ‘bot. Mister Michael Reed can’t fix this. You’ll be broken forever. Your brothers—your fellow robots—they’ll leave when they realize how foolish and broken and STUPID you are. They’ll hate you. You don’t matter. You’re just scrap metal._

The words of The Voice scroll across his vision like a marquee. The Spine’s neck tics once, twice, a third time. Keeping the Wi-Fi at bay is getting difficult. It’s getting painful. His head pounds.

“Th-the Spine?” Rabbit says, aloud. When The Spine looks up from his work on tiny wire ports and connectors that he can work on in his chassis, Rabbit looks scared. “Y-y-y-y-you ain’t on th’ Wi-Fi. And-and-and-and-and-and—and I just b-b-been thinkin’…”

Rabbit has been thinking too much about too little. The Spine knows he does this, and he knows it usually results in thoughts of elephants and gunshots and the sounds of circular saws, cannons, and chainsaws. So The Spine puts his work down and gathers Rabbit close. He isn’t sure it will help—he never has been, because each time is different.

Rabbit holds on tight. His boiler chugs faster and faster and steam pours from his cheek vents and from the seam of his neck and jaw and it dampens his shirt where it leaks from his elbows, and The Spine holds tighter. He knows Rabbit is crying inconsolable oily tears against his vest. He holds tighter to Rabbit and he holds tighter to his own mental firewalls.

He cannot let those down. He cannot let those down. If he lets down his mental firewalls, he will let down his brother.

So The Spine assures Rabbit that it is okay, he is okay, he is safe, he is okay, he is okay, over and over again until The Spine is sure that he will get stuck on the words and never be able to say anything else, and he keeps saying them.

When Rabbit is consolable, The Spine releases him from his hug—which was more for the constant, unchangeable pressure than the comfort of tactile sensation—but he keeps an arm around Rabbit’s shoulders. He leads Rabbit to a TV room with a couch strong enough to hold the both of them and puts in Rabbit’s favorite movie.

The Spine has come to the realization long, long ago that he would watch  _Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory_ until his optics fell out and his audio receptors stopped working if it would help Rabbit stop hearing noises from the wars in his head. Every time Rabbit has a bad enough day that they watch it more than once in a row, The Spine comes to this realization anew, and remembers that he would do anything if only to make his older brother feel better.

He sits on that couch with Rabbit’s head in his lap and Rabbit’s hat perched next to his knees, and he tries not to let his mental firewall come crashing down. He can’t. He smooths a hand over Rabbit’s bandanna instead and tries to ignore The Voice.

They have watched the movie three times when Rabbit sits up.

“The Spine, somethin’s wrong, r-r-right?” he asks. “In y-y-y-y-your head.” His face is serious, more serious than it should be, and The Spine feels himself sink a bit.

“No,” The Spine replies. But his mental firewall slips and some of The Voice gets to Rabbit over the Wi-Fi. He fights back a cringe, because Rabbit can see the words marqueeing just as he does.

_You’re pathetic. Why do you try? You can’t do anything right. You’ll never be human. You are a freak of machinery and you’re a broken fool for wanting to be different._

Rabbit’s expression turns to one of fierce determination.

“Y-y-y-y-you know you can l-l-let me see all-all of it,” he says. The Spine shakes his head. His back has gone stiff and straight. Even still, he carefully, slowly, cautiously lets down part of the firewall. Just the part that keeps him cut off from Rabbit.

He allows everything The Voice has said and everything else he has heard to go to Rabbit. He feels his optics welling with oil and slides his arms around Rabbit’s chassis. He hides his face in Rabbit’s shoulder and hides the oil tears from his brother. This is humiliating. This is embarrassing. This isn’t fair to Rabbit.

Rabbit is the one having a bad day; The Spine shouldn’t have one as well. Rabbit needs The Spine’s strength.

His pressure sensors and Rabbit’s thoughts over the Wi-Fi tell him that those parts of his thoughts are going through the Wi-Fi along with everything else, and that Rabbit is holding him as tight as he possibly can.

“Th’ Spine, y-y-y-you don’t haveta save your b-b-bad days for when nobody else is sad,” Rabbit reprimands gently.

“Please don’t be angry,” The Spine whispers. Rabbit squeezes tighter, and The Spine feels the ache of the Empathy Program file over the Wi-Fi.

“I’m not angry-gry-gry,” Rabbit replies quietly. “I’ll ne-ne-never-never b-b-be angry at’cha for this.”

The Spine lets loose a choked sob that’s more steam than sob. Rabbit presses his face against The Spine’s hat and rubs a hand up and down his back in a way that’s less a tic of his shoulder and more a humanly comforting gesture.

“Y-y-y-you’re good enough,” he says. “You’re won-won-wonderful. You ain’t sel-selfish, or r-r-r-rude, and like  _heck_ y-y-y-you’re a hunk ‘a scrap metal!” Rabbit insists.

“I’m sorry,” The Spine snivels. “I’m sorry.”

“You ain’t fool-oolish or br-broken. And ya got no-nothin’ t’apologize for, I pr-promise,” Rabbit assures. “J-j-j-j-just listen ta me, not that Voice.”

For once, The Voice goes quiet. He hopes it stays that way.

The Spine has never been more grateful for Rabbit’s presence.


End file.
